


Undone

by jin_fenghuang



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, ds9 - Fandom
Genre: Bad Decisions, Getting Back Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Angst, Mutual Pining, Pining, Regret, Romance, forced breakup, season 5
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 01:29:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7598158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jin_fenghuang/pseuds/jin_fenghuang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been nearly two months since Starfleet Security had confronted him, since he'd been forced to choose between Starfleet and his relationship with Garak.</p><p>A big 'Thank You' to Cadesama for the beta!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Julian?"

"Uhm, sorry."

Bashir jerked upright at being gently touched on the arm and yawned through clenched teeth.

"I'm a bit tired. I didn't get a lot a sleep last night."

He flashed Jadzia a sheepish, apologetic smile. It wasn't even a lie. He'd not slept well since –

"Nightmares about the prison camp?" Jadzia looked at him over her syto bean pot-au-feu, worry in her eyes. "Are you still seeing councilor Garcia?"

"Yes, once a week but that's not it –" Bashir's eyes were once again drawn back to where Garak was queuing at the replicator.

It had been nearly two months – forty-seven days and eleven hours, he thought bitterly – since Starfleet Security had confronted him, since he'd been forced to choose between Starfleet and his relationship with Garak.

"You miss him, don't you?" Jadzia jerked her chin toward Garak and the sympathetic look she gave him should not have annoyed him as much as it did.

Bashir watched as Garak sat down at their usual table and he had to swallow around a sudden intense feeling of loneliness and longing.

He shook his head.

"I'm fine."

His voice sounded unconvincing even to his own ears.

Bashir forced himself to look away. No matter how much it hurt right now he'd made the right decision. His calculations did support that.

He sighed and picked up his roll, absentmindedly tearing it into tiny pieces. He tried to tell himself that they'd known from the start that it wasn't meant to last that he'd done the right, the logical thing by choosing his career, that they hadn't been that serious. But it hadn't really been a choice had it? With the stigma of his augmentations now publicly known staying in Starfleet was the best shot he had, for as long as they would have him.

"You don't sound it," Jadzia started and Bashir ground his teeth.

"The replicators are off by 2.1% again, someone will have to inform O'Brien," Bashir commented and picked up his spoon, only to poke at his food. Maybe if he pretended to eat she'd drop the subject.

"Denial won't make it go away, Julian," Jadzia gently admonished him, the concern in her voice genuine. It made him want to punch something.

"How would you know?" Bashir muttered under his breath. He was tired of the endless thinly hidden relief masquerading as sympathy and even more tired of well meant pity. He wanted to forget, to move on. Why wouldn't they let him?

Bashir felt the small hairs at the back of his neck prickle, knowing without having to turn around that one of the station's security officers was watching him. He'd been under _discrete_ surveillance ever since they'd forced him to make his choice. That he was still considered a security risk, even after he'd done what was expected of him and had chosen Starfleet, irked him more than he was willing to admit.

"You know when –" Jadzia went on but Bashir interrupted her before she could continue.

"Let me guess, one of your previous hosts had to make a similar decision," Bashir snapped with more venom than he'd intended, regretting his tone immediately at the hurt on her face.

"Sorry–" Bashir hung his head, covering his face with his hands.

"Not one of my previous hosts," Jadzia explained, her voice soft, full of regret and then Bashir remembered Lenara and felt even worse.

"Oh God, I'm really, really sorry Jadzia." Bashir forced himself to meet her eyes. "I didn't mean to, it's just –"

"I know." Jadzia gave him a small smile, accepting his apology. "It's alright."

"Do you think I made a mistake?" Bashir suddenly couldn't meet her eyes anymore, but he needed to hear this, steeled himself for her answer.

"I don't know, Julian. I can't make your choices for you. Yes, it hurt when Lenara chose tradition over me but –" Jadzia paused for a moment, pensive. She fiddled with her spoon, letting the conversation laps into silence before continuing.

"But on the bright side, I would never have met Worf if I'd gone with her."

"… and you think I'm an idiot." Bashir pressed his lips together in annoyance; he wasn't quite sure if at himself or Jadzia. Either, both, did it matter?

Jadzia gave him an affirmative smile and squeezed his hand. "I didn't say that."

"Not in so many words–"

"Hey." Jadzia squeezed his hand one more time before letting it go. He could see all the things she wanted to say – but didn't – flit over her face.

"You're not her and I didn't mean to make you feel worse. What I'm trying to say is, I'm your friend and I'm here for you. I'm on your side, Julian, even if you make stupid choices."

"Thanks." Bashir managed a genuine smile. "That means a lot to me."

And he meant it. She'd been one of the few people who neither took offense at his enhancements, nor his relationship with Garak, as short lived as it was.

"And you look like you could do with a raktajino or three," Dax teased gently and got up. "Do you want anything else? Scones? Spice pudding?"

"No, thanks. Just a raktajino. Double sweet, please." Bashir nodded, watching her leave.

Garak was going to be fine. Just like Jadzia. She had to be fine, right? Anyone could see how happy she and Worf were.

He made a face at his rapidly cooling stew and pushed the bowl away – he'd be fine too. He just needed time and with the war looming at horizon, he did have more important things to worry about than a relationship.

Giving up his career, everything he'd worked hard to achieve, would have been foolish. He couldn't – in good faith – stand by and watch uselessly from the sidelines as the Dominion took over. The stakes were too high, his personal happiness none withstanding.

-::-

"Whiskey, two glasses."

Bashir heard O'Brien order but refused to acknowledge him, hoping he'd go away, that those drinks were for someone else. He had no such luck.

"Leave the bottle."

O'Brien slid onto the bar stool next to him, setting down the shot glasses with a clink.

Bashir kept staring at the dregs of his raktajino as if he could divine the future from it. Maybe he could: awkward with a high chance of unpleasant.

Bashir set his jaw petulantly; he really wasn't in the mood to talk.

Things had been strained between them ever since he'd been back from the Gamma Quadrant. That his best friend hadn't realized, couldn't tell the difference between him and that thing – it stung.

Bashir shook his head, that wasn't it though. Not solely. Every time they tried to mend their friendship something new seemed to throw a wrench in the works. First his enhancements, which Miles had taken pretty well, Bashir had to give him that. Bashir's relationship with Garak – not so much.

"Drink up." O'Brien filled a shot glass with whiskey and pushed it over to Bashir. It sloshed over the rim, leaving a tiny puddle on the table.

"What's that for?"

"Peace offering." O'Brien gave him a look that clearly said 'you're an idiot' and poured himself a drink before putting the bottle down.

They sat in silence for a moment, watching Odo patrol the bar, nodding both at Quark and – to Bashir's chagrin – at him. It was _nice_ to know that Odo considered him just as trustworthy as the Ferengi.

"It's not fair," Bashir muttered low under his breath before knocking back the whiskey. It burned his throat and spread in a comforting warmth through his body. He held his glass out for a refill.

"It's not," O'Brien agreed. His hand was hot and heavy as it settled on Bashir's shoulder.

"Look, Julian." O'Brien gave him a friendly little pat before letting his arm fall to his side and taking a deep breath. "I would be lying if I said I liked Garak, but –"

Bashir reached for the bottle, topping up his glass himself, not sure he wanted to hear this while sober.

"– Starfleet Security is being a bunch of asses about this." He grabbed the bottle for himself. "It's not as if you were dating Dukat."

Bashir made a face. "I wouldn't. He's insufferable."

Miles snorted, the _and Garak isn't_ blatantly visibly in his expression.

"Wrong kind of insufferable, besides I clearly remember _you_ calling me that not too long ago."

"I did." Miles knocked back another shot. "And you know what I mean."

"Yeah." Bashir nodded, accepting the apology. He felt like a weight was lifted from his shoulders. "Uhm, Miles – thanks."

"Up for a game?" Miles jerked his chin toward their board.

"Sure."

Bashir balanced himself on the top rung of the bar stool and reached under the table top for their darts. He'd missed Miles. It was good to have his friend back.

-::-

The briefing was scheduled to start at 0900.

It was 0802 when Bashir entered the briefing room. Standing procedure was to gather an hour early, due to the newly added security measures.

The room was bare even for a conference room. There were no decorations, no extra chairs, no refreshments. No one was allowed to bring PADDs or other personal items, and even the medical instruments Bashir would need had to be replicated right then and there.

His month-long, undetected replacement had shaken the station's sense of security to the core. They couldn't risk another Founder infiltration.

Bashir sat at the empty table, waiting for his colleagues to arrive. They filed in a few minutes later, one after the other, tired looking but determined. These days even Dax was on time.

At 0810, Bashir slid his freshly replicated medical case onto the conference table. He stifled a yawn. Precautions took up so much of their time, but the alternative was worse.

Bashir hated the oppressive silence that had settled over the room. He flipped the medi-case open. The metallic snap of the locks echoed eerily, making him cringe at the disproportionate loudness.

When he looked up, the faces that stared back at him were somber, watching his every move.

Bashir slid the vial into the hypospray with a click, willing his hands not to shake under his peers' scrutiny.

He'd gotten better at handling the stares. Unsurprisingly so – Bashir pressed his lips together in annoyance – he'd had more than enough practice over the past few weeks.

Bashir guessed that he should be grateful for small mercies, since only command knew about the Founder impersonating him. Even after the debacle with the EMH and the subsequent exposure of his genetic modifications, he'd gotten only the occasional odd look from the station's Federation personnel.

But when the Maquis – Eddington – had reported Bashir's and Garak's relationship to Starfleet Security as a final parting gift, everything had gotten exponentially worse. Not only was he now considered a potential security risk, and subsequently put under surveillance, but the Occupation was still in recent memory and Cardassia joining the Dominion only stirred up that resentment, making him – if not exactly a persona non grata among the Bajorans – less than welcome among their midst and subsequently most public areas.

That would die down over time. Bashir shrugged, swallowing around his unease. The threat of Founder infiltration on the other hand –

Bashir could feel everyone's eyes on him and he frowned at the tabletop. He didn't have to be Betazoid to know what they were thinking as he set up his equipment. How he'd been replaced, how they had had meetings just like this with that _thing_. It made his skin crawl.

He tried to focus on the task at hand, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows to reassure everyone that he wasn't performing some slight of hand trick.

His sample was the first to be taken. He bared his neck to Worf, who then handed the hypospray to Kira. She extracted the vial then held it up against the light, sloshing the red, viscous blood it held. Bashir irritably wondered what exactly she was thinking she'd be able to detect that way, but he bit his tongue, refraining from pointing out the uselessness of the act. When she was done she nodded and put the vial dead center on the conference table.

Vial after vial was filled, handed off, and placed on the table.

It could be anyone. Bashir shook his head, trying to free it of the unwanted thoughts. Instead, he stowed away the hypospray and walked over to the replicator to recycle the case.

And then the waiting began. It would take thirty minutes to be certain.

Bashir refrained from staring, from searching for abnormalities, missing quirks, anything that might give away an imposter. The odds were –

No, he refused to calculate them.

Two minutes ticked by in tense silence before Bashir got up again and replicated himself a copy Felix's newest project, something set in Vegas in the sixties. He'd promised Felix to help pick a couple of appropriate songs for the main character's repertoire. Bashir sat back down and flicked the PADD on, glad for anything to distract himself with.

He stared at the screen, unable to concentrate. He remembered the days when he had looked forward to a life at the frontier, self-conscious at how young and naïve he'd been. Had it really only been five years?

Bashir's eyes surreptitiously flicked up, lingered on Jadzia and Worf who were sitting close together, talking in hushed tones about their plans for the evening.

He knew exactly what he would be doing this evening. He'd be working late like he always did when Jadzia or Miles didn't drag him out for drinks. Anything to distract him from what he could not have. The same as pretty much every evening since –

Bashir sighed and turned his attention back the list of songs he'd been browsing, adding a few of his personal favorites, wondering if this collection of melancholy love songs was meant to specifically torture him. No, Bashir admonished himself, he'd been the one to make that choice, he had no right to be maudlin.

Scrolling through the code, Bashir tapped his index finger on the side of the casing, trying to decide how to sugar-coat his opinion to Felix. While he agreed that the nightclub setting was charming, the concept itself was a bit – well, there was no other way to say it – boring. No espionage, no intrigue, no heists. He couldn't see this holding anyone's attention for more than a couple holo-sessions. It really was only Felix's talent as a coder that would make this work at all.

He quietly started to hum Sinatra's _All the Way_ then stopped when he realized what he was doing. Kira was sitting across from him with her eyes closed – meditating – reciting a Bajoran prayer under her breath, the space next to her – where Odo's chair usually stood – empty.

The Chief of Security was not present; it would have been too much of a risk to have him join the meeting. They had yet to find a way to differentiate one Founder from the other. Bashir pinched the bridge of his nose. They barely even had a way to tell if someone was a Founder at all.

Bashir saw it as a token of good will that he was still invited to the command meetings. Technically, his presence as CMO was not strictly necessary, especially when it came to tactical discussions.

Miles was sitting to his right, editing code with bloody minded determination.

Sisko, on the other hand, was grimly staring at the test tubes and Bashir felt a pang of sympathy. If this had happened under his command, he'd be anxious too.

After 15.2 minutes, Miles put down the PADD with the holo-novel uniform he was re-coding and got up. He jerked his head toward the replicator.

"Do you want anything?"

"A double Ferengi Black Hole," Bashir deadpanned, which got him a snort from O'Brien and a raised eyebrow from Sisko.

"I could do with one myself." Miles sighed. "Tea?"

"Sure." Bashir nodded in agreement.

A few moments later, O'Brien sat back down and slid the steaming mug toward Bashir.

"Thanks."

Bashir cradled it in his hands, watching the steam rise.

He didn't order Tarkalean tea often these days. It reminded him of Garak. Hell, Bashir shook his head sadly, what didn't?

The steam kept on rising and Bashir gave in and breathed in the familiar scent, let it drag him into the pleasant memory of waking up to the smell of it permeating his quarters, of Garak quietly carrying a tray with breakfast to the dining table, trying not to wake him just yet.

Jadzia had once told him that he needed to stop ruining the good times he'd had by dwelling on what could have been. She was right, no one could take this from him and to his surprise it soothed him, made him hurt less.

Bashir smiled to himself, the past was his; no one could take his memories from him.

Eventually the hot mug stung his fingers and he shifted his grip, holding it by the handle instead.

"Time's up," Bashir announced in synch with the computer. There was a communal sigh of relief. None of the blood samples had changed.

"Stop that," O'Brien hissed low under his breath. "It's creepy."

Bashir snorted and was about to ask him if that meant that he didn't want to know about the typo on page fifty-seven that would result in neon-yellow – not golden – buttons on the uniform, when Sisko called the meeting to order and their brief moment of levity was over.

Sisko briefly summed up the current political situation and Bashir could feel the tension in the air gathering like electricity before a storm. The odds for a full on war were rising by the minute.

There simply was no good news to be had. It seemed these days there never was anymore.

Dukat was firmly in charge of Cardassia and Cardassia's allegiance with the Dominion was worrying – to say the least. Their war with the Klingons was threatening to drag the Federation into this whole mess, which they so far had been able to avoid.

But what was even more worrying was that the Federation had no intel on what was happening on Cardassia Prime; no spies, no surveillance, nothing. Even Odo had lost what meager contacts he used to be able to draw on.

Starfleet code breakers were working on deciphering what few messages they'd been able to intercept, but even their best and brightest weren't any closer to breaking the Cardassian code.

The unasked question hung thick in the air and Bashir glared at his hands, not willing to meet Sisko's eyes. He would not ask Garak unless directly ordered to do so, and even then –. Garak had been manipulated enough by Tain, Bashir thought grimly. He would not step up to fill those shoes, would not give Starfleet the chance to use Garak's feelings for him for the good of the State.

If Garak made the decision to side with the Federation, it would have to be his choice, not under any kind of duress.

There was a chance, a tiny 15.8% chance that Garak would do just that, would join them to spite Dukat. Even though Dukat had publicly humiliated Garak, Bashir was not sure that that would be enough, considering how much Garak loved his homeworld, how loyal he was to the Union and how little incentive the Federation was giving him.

Dukat declaring Garak stateless had been a blessing, in a way. Bashir'd taken a bit of a gamble when Starfleet had forced his hand, but so far it had played out in their favor. Under the Stateless Individuals and Refugee act the Federation could not deport him, since there was nowhere he could be deported to, and involving the Federation directly meant that Garak's fate was not in Sisko's hands anymore. As much as he admired Sisko as his commanding officer, Bashir held no misgivings that if Sisko had his say, Garak would be off the station as soon as he'd finished packing. In the hands of Federation jurisdiction, on the other hand, Garak was reasonably safe. For now.

Sure, as an official security risk Garak was under increased surveillance. Bashir snorted. As if that was anything new. Odo had been trying to prove that Garak was an enemy spy since Garak had first set foot on the station, and back then it had even been true.

Bashir was a bit worried that Sisko would resort to blackmailing Garak if the situation got dire, like he'd done two and a half years ago when Kira had been kidnapped. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, contemplating. That was Sisko's choice, Bashir told himself, stomping on the feeling of dread settling in the pit of his stomach. He would have no part in that.

The most worrying thing, though, was that they had no way to stop the Founders from bringing in reinforcements through the wormhole. With every unscheduled, unaccounted for flare – eighty-four up until now – more Dominion ships, more Jem'Hadar, were entering their quadrant, tipping the scales in favor of the Founders.

Bashir was the only who had even the smallest silver lining to report. He detailed his cooperation with Odo to find a more reliable, quicker way to identify Changelings other than blood screenings. They were currently in the process of reverse-engineering the device the Obsidian Order had used to interrogate Odo and he got Sisko's permission to involve Dax and O'Brien in the project.

But even with that, the threat the Dominion presented grew every day. Right now, they were the only thing standing between the Dominion and what was left of the free worlds of the Alpha Quadrant.

The Dominion had to be stopped, the alternative was unthinkable. He knew what the Founders were capable of better than anyone else in this room. His memory of the month he'd spend in the Dominion prison camp still searingly fresh.

Bashir's stomach clenched in fear of how many more changelings were masquerading as their abducted counterparts in key government positions.

 He was quite aware of the irony of _the augment_ hiding in plain sight, pretending to be one of _them_ for years now helping to discover Founders. But there was a difference, even if some didn't see it that way. He was no Khan. He didn't want to be feared, didn't want to rule anyone. He genuinely wanted to help.

The grim determination he saw in his peers' faces, their obvious accord on the seriousness of the threat, their common goal to do anything to protect the Federation and the Alpha Quadrant alleviated some of the doubt that he'd been starting to harbor over his choice.

He was needed here, even if the situation wasn't ideal. His research was essential. No matter how much he missed Garak.

-::-


	2. Chapter 2

The next time he saw Garak, Bashir was on his way to play racquetball with Miles.

It was unexpected, and Bashir's heart skipped a traitorous beat at the familiar sight of Garak queuing at the replimat. Garak had apparently been putting his Obsidian Order training to good use and had managed to avoid him for the better part of a month. In a way, Bashir was grateful. It hurt less without the constant reminder.

Garak was standing with his back to him, next in line, and Bashir had to force himself not to stop and stare, or worse, walk over and –

He furtively searched the room for the by now ever present security guard lurking in the background. No, it wasn't worth the risk.

Instead, Bashir kept walking and when he was halfway through the replimat he noticed – out of the corner of his eye – not one, but two mugs materializing and stopped, turning to get a better view.

Maybe Garak was having lunch with Ziyal. But last he'd heard she was studying art on Bajor. Was she back on the station? Bashir frowned, realizing to his chagrin that it had to be her; Ziyal was the only other person – besides Odo – who shared meals with Garak, and Odo didn't eat.

Bashir wasn't proud of the intense, ugly jealousy welling up. Hated the way it tasted bitter in his mouth, made him grind his teeth and ball his hands into fists. He'd always been aware of Ziyal's crush, but it had been much easier to ignore when he'd been the one waking up in Garak's arms and now – no. Bashir shock his head. He was self-aware enough to know that that wasn't fair.

Garak deserved to move on, to be happy, and if that meant him dating Ziyal so be it – Bashir clenched his jaw – but it didn't mean he had to like it.

"Julian?" Miles was jogging toward him, racquet propped up on his shoulder and Bashir ground his teeth at the concerned look on his face.

"Come on," he urged, gently nudging Bashir. He clearly wanted to say something but seemed to decide against it, settling for: "Let's go."

"Yes, let's."

Bashir put on a fake, cheerful smile, pretending that he'd not just gotten caught staring and started walking, but curiosity won and Bashir couldn't resist the temptation to quickly glance over his shoulder and check their – Garak's – usual table.

It was empty.

Ziyal was not waiting for Garak. No one was. The relief that washed over him was so quick, so sudden that it left him trembling and deeply ashamed of himself. He shouldn't take pleasure in Garak eating alone, it wasn't right. He wasn't that petty a person, he cared about Garak, and deep down Bashir wanted Garak to be happy even if it was without him.

But why was Garak getting two beverages? Was he waiting for someone else? Bashir shrugged then smiled to himself, remembering Garak's sweet tooth. He'd probably mistaken a bowl for a mug. Garak was rather fond of human desserts, particularly anything containing chocolate.

He kept on walking, a step or so behind Miles, but when they'd reached the other side of the replimat, he gave into the temptation to glance back a final time.

Garak was sitting alone, reading a PADD, his left hand cradling a single mug. His back was turned toward Bashir, straight – too straight, Bashir's memory supplied – almost rigid and Bashir couldn't help but think that that was intentional. If Garak was one thing, it was perceptive. He'd surely have noticed Bashir by now and his refusal to acknowledge him hurt.

Bashir closed his eyes, fighting the sadness at what they'd lost, resenting the doubt that was seeping in through the edges. He'd made the right choice.

-::-

"Computer: stop program."

Mona Luvsitt froze in place then vanished, leaving Bashir in the cold, stark darkness of the holosuite.

Bashir balled his hands to fists, his fingernails biting into his palms, desperately trying to get a grip on himself. Fragments, scrambled bits and pieces of his holo-adventure with Garak flashing before his eyes. It felt so real he could almost – if he opened his eyes would he see the door slide open and Garak step in, interrupting his holo-novel as he had done nearly two years ago?

The memory was so real, so sudden that it left him breathless and hurting almost expecting to see Garak standing there, adorable in his tux, teasing him about being embarrassed about his holo-novel choices.

Bashir bit the inside of his cheek, forced himself to open his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths before he got himself back under control.

This had been a bad idea. Instead of being a distraction, his favorite holo-novel series brought back nothing but painful memories.

It took all his willpower to not run, to leave the holosuite unhurriedly.

He needed a new holo-novel, that was it. Maybe he could ask Felix to recommend one, or even better send him a beta of something new.

What he needed right now, though, was a drink.

-::-

Quark's was packed at this time of the day and Bashir didn't mind. The noise and bustle was welcome. While he wasn't in the mood for company, he didn't want to be alone either.

He ordered a Bajoran ale and waited at the bar until one of the tables on the upper level cleared, claiming it for himself.

Bashir scooted his chair to an angle that let him observe the people below, then reached behind his ear and switched off his universal translator. The sudden onslaught of alien and human languages was as fascinating as ever.

"Julian!"

Dax was looking up at him from the lower level, a bat'leth slung over her shoulder.

Bashir smiled at the charming way her Trill accent mispronounced his name when he was not using his universal translator. He was about to ask her if she wanted to join him, or if he could join her – he'd always wanted to try out a bat'leth and she had two lifetimes of training – when he saw Worf catching up to her, striding purposefully across the barroom floor.

Worf glowered at him from over her shoulder – which was what counted as a friendly expression as far as their Strategic Operations Officer was concerned. He nodded at Bashir in greeting.

Bashir waved back at Jadzia, trying to hide his disappointment until she was out of sight, wishing that O'Brien wasn't on duty right now, or at least that he'd brought a PADD to distract himself. Maybe then he wouldn't feel so alone.

The ale he'd ordered tasted pleasant enough, and he downed the contents, regretting that he hadn't opted for something more potent.

Bashir made eye contact with Quark and raised his empty glass, pointing at the blue bottle of Andorian ale on the display behind the bar. Quark picked his way through the lined up bottles, lifting them up, waiting for Bashir to nod or shake his head until he had the right one. He got it on the third try. Quark put his ever present dish-towel down, poured the drink and gestured for one of the waiters, who scurried to fill the order.

You had to give it to Quark, the man knew how to run a bar.

Bashir was watching the waiter climb the stairs when his enhanced hearing picked out human voices speaking English and he turned to see Kasidy and Sisko walking into the bar, deep in conversation, oblivious to the world around them. Their obvious, unguarded happiness stung like salt in his wounds.

How was this fair? Bashir stared at his hands, still holding the empty glass, unable to stomach their happiness.

Sisko was dating an actual traitor, someone who had ties to the Maquis, had stood trial and been to jail for her involvement with them and yet –

But that was just it, wasn't it? There was no redemption for Garak and him, no penance. Kasidy, on the other hand, had done her time and her slate was clean again.

That was how the Federation worked, and even through his bitterness, Bashir acknowledged that that was how it should be. Once your debt to society was paid you should be able to start over.

Bashir took the shot glass with Andorian ale from the waiter and downed it in one go, feeling the potent liquor burn his throat. He slammed it back onto the table with more force than intended, anger and resentment making his blood boil.

They hadn't done anything wrong; this was about who Garak was, not any crimes he had committed. There hadn't – wouldn't be – a trial.

-::-

When Bashir walked into his office at the beginning of his shift, his heart skipped a beat. A lone PADD was sitting dead center on his console, just like Garak had left them five years ago when they'd just met. It felt like an eternity ago.

Bashir picked it up and flicked it on, smiling at the memory, but the file that flared to live wasn't a Cardassian novel.

The latest lab reports on Changeling physiology stared back at him and suddenly Bashir felt drained, tired to the bone.

He sat down at his console only to jump back up when Odo addressed him.

"Doctor?"

"Ah – yes." Bashir pulled himself together. He hadn't even noticed the Chief of Security enter. "I'll be right with you."

Maybe Dax and O'Brien were right when they'd suggested this before. He needed a date, Bashir decided, someone to make him stop obsessing.

-::-

"Computer: night light."

It really was no use. Bashir turned over on his back, reached for the second pillow, punched it into shape and stuffed it behind his head.

Insomnia really was a fitting end to an already horrible evening.

What annoyed him most was that it should have worked. It had every time, every other break up in the past. Yet his date with Samantha Lee from engineering had been a complete disaster.

Bashir groaned and covered his face with his elbow, cursing his eidetic memory for replaying every stilted conversation, every awkward pause, and the way she'd pointedly pretended to be asleep when he'd gotten dressed and left.

The whole sordid affair was painfully embarrassing, and didn't get less so the third time around.

He'd no idea why he'd thought he could do this. Miles had meant well when he'd introduced them but –

Samantha was a lovely person and Bashir felt like a heel for asking her out in the first place.

What was worse, though, was the guilt. He hadn't expected it. It had caught him under his guard, making him miserable and heartsick.

It wasn't as if he'd betrayed Garak, it really wasn't. They weren't together anymore, hadn't been for nearly three months. Yet, no matter how many times he tried to tell himself that, it never stuck, never rang true.

Breaking up with Palis had been easier. When he'd chosen Starfleet over her, he'd been able to put distance and adventure between them.

Just admit it, Julian, you are not over him and this time you can't run away.

Bashir's eyes lingered on the empty side of his bed and he sighed, feeling bitterness clench his jaw. With the station's evacuation all but imminent, he might soon get all the distance he could ever wish for.

He had known from the start that he shouldn't have gone on that date in the first place, should have listened to the tiny voice in the back of his head that this wasn't a good idea, but he was getting sick of the sympathetic looks and thinly veiled inquiries if he was alright. Well, if tonight proved anything, he wasn't.

Bashir glared at his hands, fisting them into the silver comforter. He wasn't ready to move on, and if he was honest with himself, he resented Starfleet for putting him into this position.

Needing a distraction Bashir reached for the PADD with the Trill novel Jadzia had given him. There was no point in dwelling on what could not be and if he couldn't sleep he might as well finish it so that they'd have something other than 'are you alright, Julian' to talk about.

He flicked the PADD on, flipping back a few pages to pick up where he'd left off.

 _The Tale of Galin_ spanned the seven lifetimes of the Galin Symbiont and under other circumstances Bashir would have readily admitted that it was charming, relatable and well written.

Right now he hated it.

He stared at the words on the screen, then out his bedroom window. Cardassia was glowing red in the distance and Bashir pressed his lips into a thin line, reveling in the station's sense of irony.

"Computer: one Ferengi Black Hole. Double," Bashir ordered and pushed the PADD onto the stack on his nightstand, upsetting the balance, making them tumble to the floor.

He cursed and got out off bed, kneeling on the floor to pick them up when he noticed that one of them had turned on.

 

> _… the waves licked at his chest and he could feel the icy current tug at him. The glacial waves of Kinar bay closed over him, dragged him under and washed away his regrets and longings. Serenity of true devotion filled his heart and carried him into the depth._
> 
> _Decett stood on top of the cliff, the wedding paint on her chufa still fresh. She raised her head into the wind; proud, defiant, honouring his courage._
> 
> _The State was saved._

Bashir's knuckles turned white with tension, digging into the casing as he stared at his copy of The Neverending Sacrifice. He rubbed the back of his free hand over his stinging eyes.

When had his life become a Cardassian novel?

-::-

Mines. They were going to mine the wormhole.

Bashir stood at his window, looking out into space, trying to find some semblance of peace of mind by gazing at the familiar constellations.

The freshly replicated cup of Tarkalean tea burned his fingers. Bashir didn't care, let it sear his fingertips, the pain a welcome distraction from the turmoil of calculations, of possibilities that flooded his mind.

As if the bare facts weren't bad enough. The Tian An Men was missing, her crew of thirty-two presumed dead, and as a response they were going to mine the wormhole.

It still hadn't really sunk in.

His eyes lingered on the coordinates of the wormhole. He missed the days when he could sit and enjoy the brilliant display of azure and purple of it flaring to life with wonder not dread. When the ships coming from the Gamma Quadrant were still a symbol of hope and a better future.

Now, every unscheduled flare made his stomach clench in worry of what horrors were passing through, of just how many Jem'Hadar – battle-ready and genetically coded to subjugate his Quadrant to the Dominion's rule – it was this time.

When had it all turned sour?

Bashir swirled his tea in his cup. He felt the war coming; with every minute the already slim odds for peace dwindled. It made him feel restless. It felt like an itch that he couldn't scratch, burning, irritating and yet – a small part of Bashir, a part that he despised but could not deny – wished they would declare war already, would get it over with, give up this pretense.

In a way this false entropy, this waiting for the inevitable, was worse. It reminded him of being back at the Dominion prison camp, newly calculating the diminishing odds of their survival with every passing hour.

Mining space.

His eidetic memory could pin-point the exact coordinates of every single mine they planned to plant at the mouth of the wormhole and when they did the wormhole wouldn't flare to life with the cherished shades of his memory but with the fiery blasts of exploding ships.

Bashir rubbed his hand over his face, accepting as fact what would have called an inexcusable atrocity even a year ago.

While he understood the dire necessity that drove them to commit what was – when you boiled it down to the bare facts – a war crime, it also tore at the core of his being. This was not the Federation, not the Starfleet, he'd joined. The loss of values he'd once held dear, the desperate, dirty pragmatism of this not-yet-to-be-called a war, was dragging him down, muddying the water between them and the enemy.

The chance that they'd have to evacuate the station within the next fortnight had risen to a depressing 87%. They were deep in Cardassian space, after all. Yet, he didn't want to leave the station. He'd never see Garak again, would never get a chance to –

Bashir's eyes were drawn to the ghostly reflection of the snow globe Garak had once giving him as a present. Where would Garak go?

It was the one calculation Bashir had so far been trying to avoid. Staying on the station with Dukat in control was not an option. Dukat would have him executed within 26 hours. There was a slim 23% chance that the Federation would just evacuate him with the other civilians, but since he'd not been officially granted asylum the odds skewed toward him having to fend for himself, giving him a survival change of a few weeks, at most.

The thought filled Bashir with barely suppressed panic, made him anxious and restless, filling his mind with nauseating possibilities. It wasn't as if they could just let him tag along on the Defiant either.

Bashir's fingers tightened around his cup.

No, he couldn't let that happen. He'd have to talk to Sisko hoping that it would do any good. He wasn't exactly Sisko's favorite person at the moment either.

The odds that Garak would be granted political asylum by the time they had to evacuate were slim – too slim for his liking – but he had to try.

And if that didn't work? Bashir frowned at his tea, then abandoned it on the coffee table, running through a mental list of anyone and everyone who owed him a favor. Ambassador Troi, Martok, and … Quark. Now there was a thought. How much latinum would it take –

But of course.

Bashir mentally smacked himself for not thinking of this sooner. He walked over to his bedroom closet and pulled out the bag latinum he'd stashed away, hidden in a box at the back of his closet. He'd almost forgotten he even had it.

Bashir weighed the bag in his hand and walked back over to the sofa to spill the contents onto the upholstery. It was a tidy sum, squirreled away in bits and pieces from his Dabo winnings, a precaution he'd taken back when he'd still been living in fear of his enhancements coming to light; preparation for if he'd have to run to avoid getting locked up for _his own good_.

The least he could do was make sure Garak would have funds available if he had to run and since his own secret was out Bashir wouldn't need the latinum himself any time soon.

Maybe it was an even better idea to go over Sisko's head and plead his case with the Betazed ambassador. There was a 73% chance Ambassador Troi would at least consider his request. She had, after all, a soft spot for _forbidden love_.

If Garak's pride let him accept Bashir's help.

The harsh reality of having to plan for the worst, of the worst not just being a potential, a number that he'd calculated but real, too real for his liking, swept over Bashir in a flood wave of panic.

He didn't want to face a tomorrow where everything, everyone he loved and held dear, could be, would be torn from him in this conflict, this war that he had no power to stop.

Bashir sipped his by now lukewarm tea; it tasted like ash in his mouth. He put the cup back down and stared out into space. How had everything gone so horribly, desperately wrong?

The future he'd envisioned – had so optimistically, naively calculated five years ago – had turned into an ugly mess of unpredictable horror.

Kukalaka stared down at him from his shelf and Bashir picked him up and wrapped his arms around himself, missing Garak with a sudden gut wrenching intensity that left him feeling more isolated, helpless and alone than back at the Dominion prison camp.

-::-

Bashir shoved his tray into the recycler only to turn around and be face to face with –

"Garak."

"Doctor." The split-second of genuine surprise on the Cardassian's face that instantly slid into his customer service mask made it clear that this was indeed a chance meeting. "Isn't it a bit early for lunch?"

"I, uh– I'm having an early lunch." Bashir stammered, swallowing around the dryness in his throat, annoyed at his lack of eloquence. "I have surgery scheduled in twenty-three minutes."

His hand reached out of its own volition, hovering between them for a moment before he dropped it, limp at his side. "How are you?"

"Fine." Garak gave him a tired, watery smile that belied his words. "And you, my – and yourself?"

The retracted endearment stung more than it should have but Bashir guessed that it was only fair for Garak to put emotional distance between them. He'd lost the right to that closeness the second he'd chosen Starfleet, even he'd come to regret that choice of late. If only it didn't hurt so much.

"I– " _I miss you._ "I haven't seen you around much."

"I've been busy at the shop." Garak brushed a non-existent bit of lint off his sleeve, not meeting Bashir's eyes. "You know how it is, one fashion emergency after another."

Bashir had to smile at that. As much as Garak's evasions and flippant lies sometimes irritated him, he'd always been charmed by them nevertheless.

"Excuse me." A Bajoran woman holding a tray shouldered her way past Garak, making her annoyance at them blocking the replicator clear.

Garak took an involuntary, unbalanced step forward when her shoulder smacked into his and Bashir reached out to steady him, suddenly standing very, very close. He stared into Garak's eyes, mind blank, heart beating in his throat. Garak's tunic was achingly familiar to the touch and he longed to run his fingers over it. It would take so little to just lean in a bit more to –

"Are you alright, my dear?" Garak's breathing quickened imperceptibly and the blue hue creeping up his ridges did nothing to hide Garak's own feelings.

Bashir's heart soared at the endearment and his voice came out hoarse when he replied, "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

He knew he should let go, should step away and end this torture. Gather what shreds of his self-control were left, but –

Garak's hand gently touched him on his upper arm, mirroring Bashir's own, and Bashir shivered under the contact, realizing that he had yet to let go of Garak's shoulder. It was a kind, innocent gesture, one that from anyone else would be nothing more than that of a good friend. Bashir drew in a shallow, painful breath, forcing air into his lungs. How had he ever convinced himself that –

_I miss you so much._

Before he could stop himself Bashir reached out and cradled Garak's face in his hands, pressing their lips together before he could change his mind, could let cold, hard reason ruin his life again. The pent of passion of the last three months broke free, overwhelming, potent and raw.

He didn't care about the tsunami of whispers that swept over them, the pointing fingers and the not so hushed outrage and for this small fraction of a moment the world was theirs alone, was whole again.

The one thing that broke through just how good it felt to hold Garak again was that Garak didn't kiss him back, had instead gone rigid under Bashir's touch.

"Julian?" Garak gently pushed at his shoulders and Bashir let himself be pushed away, held at arms length. Rejected.

Too late. The realization was like a punch to the gut. Bashir felt the blood drain from his face, pool like a dead weight in his stomach, leaving him heart-sick and faint.

He'd been a fool to think that Garak would forgive him for what he'd done. He wouldn't forgive himself either.

Shattered, Bashir stepped back, searching Garak's face for a sign, a clue, anything –

"I'm –" Bashir started but his voice betrayed him, broken, stuttering, full of defeat and regret. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have –"

He hung his shoulders, the exact pattern of the replimat's floor burned into his memory. Anything was better than looking at Garak, at Garak's cool, closed off face and the realization that he had but himself to blame.

"I'll just go."

Bashir turned to leave, had to leave before he disgraced himself even further in public and it took every ounce of willpower he'd left not to bolt, not to run and never look back until he was in his quarters where he could burry his hurt and anger at his own stupidity in several double Ferengi Black Holes.

A hand on the shoulder stopped him.

"Why now?"

Bashir swallowed around the maelstrom of emotions, dug his fingernails into his palm, the pain anchoring him in the here and now. _Because I regret my choice, because I can't face this without you at my side. Because I love you._

He briefly closed his eyes before turning back around to meet Garak's eyes at last. The uncharacteristic but guarded vulnerability in them twisted the knife already deeply buried in Bashir's heart. There was but one answer he could possibly give, one desperate last gamble admitting the truth.

"Because tomorrow might be too late."

His answer seemed to surprise Garak, his gaze suddenly became piercing, judging Bashir's sincerity. Bashir rubbed his suddenly sweaty palms on the side of his legs and tried not to squirm, not to look away, aware that this was the only chance he'd get.

After what seemed to be an eternity of soul-searching scrutiny something, Bashir wasn't sure exactly what, seemed to convince Garak.

"Julian –" Garak started then pulled him close, never finishing that sentence. His fingers dug almost painfully into Bashir's back as Garak crushed him to his chest and kissed him, this time with familiar, deeply missed passion.

"I'm going to resign after my shift."

Breathless and delirious with relief and happiness Bashir buried his head in Garak's shoulder, unwilling to let go.

"Are you certain?"

"No." Bashir shrugged and kissed him again, taking the sting out of his words. He intertwined their fingers, cool sleek scales sliding against his skin. "But I've made my choice."

At Garak's concerned face Bashir added, "I'm not letting you go again, Elim."

The world was on the verge of toppling into the abyss with everything falling apart in slow motion around them. Bashir held onto Garak and decided that he finally had made the right decision, that they deserved every bit of happiness they could find before the inevitable disaster.

Consequences be damned.

-::-


End file.
